Events of Misfortune
by Allocin
Summary: When the Dursleys are lost to a terrible car accident, Harry is adopted by the most unusual person.
1. Crash

TITLE: Events of Misfortune   
AUTHOR: Allocin   
SUMMARY: When the Dursleys are lost in a terrible accident, Harry is taken in by the most unusual person.   
RATING: PG   
CATEGORIES: Drama/General   
CHARACTERS: Harry, Lucius, Draco, Narcissa.   
TIMELIME: Pre-PS/SS (c.1986-91) AU   
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter and all its related merchandise. I make no profit from this venture and mean no offence. Don't sue. 

_Chapter 1: Crash_

It was a pleasant spring day. The Easter holidays were upon the citizens of England, and the Dursleys had decided to visit a theme park. Unfortunately for them, Dudley's choice was near Leicester in the Midlands, and it would take a good hour and a half to get there. Of course, that was the time it usually took to get to their destination; on their chosen day of travel, the M1 was heaving with cars and lorries alike. 

"It's abnormal to have so many coaches travelling on a Monday," Uncle Vernon grumbled, face a cherry red colour even with the air conditioning on. Aunt Petunia murmured in agreement, matching his glare at the driver of an HGV from Hungary. A National Express coach to Newcastle was the next victim of their angry look. Dudley's ice cream slopped down his front. 

A thump followed by a hiss of pain sounded from the boot. Aunt Petunia's long neck swivelled round so she could glower ineffectively at the empty seat. Dudley glanced over his shoulder, losing the rest of his liquefied ice cream as a messy stain on his trousers. 

"Quiet, boy!" Uncle Vernon shouted, loud enough to attract unwanted attention from the cars crawling past him. He smiled pleasantly at the drivers that stared until they moved on. 

While the Dursleys sat in relative comfort in the air conditioned car, put out only by the creeping traffic and the ever-persistent sunshine, one Harry Potter lay curled in the suffocating darkness of the boot. His head throbbed where he had hit it on the side, and his breath came in shallow gasps. Sweat trickled down his neck and tingled along his back. Had there been light to see by, his face would have been shocking pink. A migraine pulsed within his skull. Young Harry could fit in the boot for the simple reason that he was an undernourished six-year-old, and used to cramped and stuffy spaces because he lived in a cupboard under the stairs at the Dursley household. 

"It's such a shame we couldn't leave him with Mrs Figg," Aunt Petunia lamented. "If only her cat -" and she said the word with particular distaste, "- hadn't caught that dreadful disease." Uncle Vernon nodded, no small amount of relief coursing through him as they passed the hold-up – two written-off cars in the outside lane – and he could put his foot down. 

Harry was knocked about more violently as the car sped up. Even though he always travelled in the boot when he was allowed in the vehicle, the event itself was irregular enough for him not to be used to it. He much preferred to walk. When he walked he could see where he was going, and any movement was entirely controlled by him. He heard the Dursleys laugh at some shared joke, obviously happier now that they were moving at a significant speed. Harry began to hum to himself, a little song he made up as he went, quiet enough for it not to be heard over the roaring of the tyres. The Dursleys laughed again, a nauseating sound when Dudley squealed like a pig. Aunt Petunia cooed at him, and the car swerved to the right. Uncle Vernon was a terrible weaver when he was on the motorway, though he would never admit it himself. In fact he cursed anybody that cut him up on the road, even if he had done the same action not a minute before. 

Swerving back into the middle lane, talking animatedly, Uncle Vernon did not notice the hold-up in front of him. It was too late when he spotted the non-moving cars, the red lights, and he slammed his foot to the brake harder than he ever had in his life. The wheels screeched against the tarmac, rubber burning as they skidded persistently forward. Harry slammed into the back of the seats, knocking his head again. The sound of metal being crushed seemed to echo in his ears, along with the high squealing of Dudley and Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon roared. 

The car stopped moving finally, but there was no time for anyone to recover. More screaming tyres neared him. Harry stared in terror at the lock of the boot. Another car ploughed into them, twisting the metal that encased him. A leg was caught in the mangled mess, and he screamed with pain. Tears streamed down his face as the injured limb was jarred over and over as car after car slammed into theirs. His agonised yells were drowned out first by the Dursleys, and then by something much louder. The brakes shrieked in an ear-piercing tone, a great tremor rumbled through Harry's bones. Smoke and steam pulsed into the air about his head, stinging his eyes as his ears rung with the terrible vibration. The Dursleys kept on yelling. Suddenly the screeching brakes stopped, but the moment was not a relief. Protesting iron groaned above him. Harry squinted fearfully through a small gap that had been forced in the boot lid. His mouth opened in a silent scream as a huge lorry toppled onto the car. It seemed to happen in slow motion, yet it happened too fast for him. In a very final crash the roof collapsed on Harry, crushing him under a mountain of warped steel. For a moment all he felt was blinding pain, and then he passed out. 

Lucius Malfoy never usually went into his study during the week. More often than not he was busy causing trouble in and for the Ministry of Magic, but today was a national wizarding holiday. Having finished breakfast and with no pressing matters to attend to, he had retired to the less-than-occupied room, intent on dealing with some more personal matters that needed his attention. It was by pure chance that he came across the old glass ornament under a mountain of paperwork in one of his many drawers. Pulling it out, he tapped it with his wand, whispering a quiet word under his breath. The glass began to colour, and he watched in fascination and some amount of shock as the usual transparent appearance turned to a very definite ivory. 

The Potter brat was vulnerable. 

After the fall of Lord Voldemort, Lucius had blamed his actions on the Imperius Curse. With his money and influence, he had escaped any trial with ease. But, as few doubted, he had been entirely conscious of his activities. Hidden in the depths of Malfoy Manor, he had used some of his darker knowledge to construct the ornament now held in his hand, though in all honesty it was no ornament. The instrument was attuned to the protection on Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the infernal child who had somehow managed to put Lucius' honour into question. He had vowed to avenge both himself and his master that day, promising to hurt the wizarding world at large. That had been five years ago. 

Now, it seemed his chance had come. With a sneer he whirled out of his study, cloak billowing about him in a threatening veil of forest green. He strode purposely to the ground floor, and Apparated as soon as he was beyond the first garden. 

The glass ornament guided his Apparation much as the Dark Mark had done those many years ago, and he appeared in a great huddle of chaotic Muggles. He watched from the shadows for a few moments, analysing the situation. Those dratted contraptions of theirs – cars – had amassed in a great quantity, shapes contorted from the norm. 'Ambulances' and 'Fire Engines', as the labels read, were parked around the edges of the road. People rushed back and forth, some giving orders, some begging for information, some taking pictures, some helping the wounded. The smell of blood and pain in the air brought back old memories for Lucius, but he pushed them aside. He had a mission to complete, and no time for nostalgia. 

Using a simple charm he located the whereabouts of his goal, and headed immediately towards him. He was led to the front rows of the damaged vehicles, more particularly to an overturned lorry. The ripped material that usually protected the sides stated that the goods contained therein had travelled from Budapest. Lucius ignored this in favour of inspecting the ruins beneath the gigantic contraption. Having repeated the charm several times, he came to a family car that was crushed and twisted beyond recognition. He suddenly doubted that anyone could survive the destruction that had been wrought, but the glass instrument hadn't blanked yet. Weaving an illusion charm on the area, so that the Muggles could not see the magic he was going to cast, he lifted the lorry onto invisible stilts and eased the crushed car from beneath it. 

Blood dripped onto the tarmac, and a podgy hand hung out of the smashed glass of one of the back windows. The image inside was not pretty. Three bodies, two grossly overweight, were strapped into their seats. Blood and guts had splattered out across the empty seat, the dashboard, the steering wheel, and the cracked glass. Any other person would have been forgiven for throwing up or fainting, but Lucius had been the cause of such injuries in his time and had no trouble inspecting the car for any sign of his quarry. By the size of the two men he didn't expect it to be difficult, but the insolent child was nowhere in sight. Growling in annoyance, he cast the searching charm again. It guided him to what was once the rear of the car. It was less damaged than the rest, but still warped into new and interesting shapes. From a hole in the bottom more blood dripped onto the tarmac. Suppressing a smirk of satisfaction, Lucius spelled the boot open, lifting the top clean off to access the treasures within. 

A child lay inside. His black hair was wet with blood; his skin was stained in the substance. It dribbled down his arms, and discoloured his overlarge clothes. Large pools of it had soaked into the carpeting. His right leg was bent at an odd angle, nearly torn off by the ordeal. His breathing was shallow. Had Lucius been a man with a heart he would have felt great pity for the boy, and whisked him off for a better life. As it was, the lightning-shaped scar on the child's forehead drew his eyes like a beacon, and he scowled. Roughly he magicked the boy out, only checking his anger when the leg that was so badly wounded nearly ripped off completely. Pulling off one of the boy's shoes, he turned it into a Portkey – illegal, but still effective – and held onto the brat as the tug behind his navel signalled their departure. 

The surrounding people jumped when the lorry towards the centre of the pile-up crashed down again. It rocked to and fro for a moment, and faintly a small trickle of liquid could be heard. In a millisecond a huge explosion erupted, billowing black smoke into the sky from the engine of the lorry. The people gasped as the flames spread quickly, starting huge fireballs in the engines closest to it. The rescue-teams redoubled their efforts to save those who were still alive, but for those such as the Dursleys it was already too late. 

Boot the rear compartment of a car. Also known as a 'trunk'. 

Lorry Heavy Goods Vehicle, 'truck'. 

Last Next  



	2. Waking

_Chapter 2: Waking_

Lucius wasted no time in ascending the many flights of stairs to the topmost floor of Malfoy Manor, depositing his levitated cargo on a four-poster bed in an ill-used room. He sneered distastefully as Potter blood soaked into the clean sheets, before dismissing it and calling a house-elf. The creature stood on bended knee before its master, head bowed and entire body quaking with fear. The familiar cruel smirk returned to Lucius' features. 

"Get me powder for the fire, then return and stay in the corner," he ordered. The house-elf whimpered, nodding, but did not move. Lucius' smirk grew wider, and his foot shot out viciously. The house-elf squealed as it bounced into the wall, an old tradition it knew well. In a flash it had vanished. Lucius began to silently count, frowning when the wretched thing returned after only a few seconds. He walloped it on the head for good measure anyway, before turning to the hearth. A fire started with the barest of muttered words, and he tossed in a pinch of the powder. The flames turned green, and he peered into their depths. "Doctor George Owen," he said clearly. A small click signified the open channel, and Lucius took another step forward. An older man's balding head appeared in the fire, expression morphing quickly from professional patience to utter terror in seconds. Lucius smiled thinly. 

"W-What can I d-do for you, Mr Malfoy?" the doctor stuttered. His eyes darted from side to side fearfully. 

"Come here. Now. I have a patient that requires your attention. And no excuses. Remember our agreement," he replied silkily. Doctor Owen visibly flinched at the mention of the agreement he had, but he nodded jerkily anyway. 

"I'll be right over," he muttered, and disappeared from the flames. Lucius pulled back, and turned to the house-elf still cowering in the corner. "You," he called, pointing a finger in its direction, "Get a bowl of hot water and some towels." It nodded and hurried off to complete the task. 

Lucius leisurely made his way downstairs to greet the good doctor, who stumbled in from the gardens looking flushed and panicked. He jumped a foot in the air when he spotted the master of the house with his easy smirk. 

"Good morning, Doctor. Follow me," he instructed. The trek back up the stairs was silent and, for the doctor at least, filled with an uneasy tension. Lucius opened the door for him, half-bowing mockingly as Doctor Owen slid past. The room he entered was dark, and even though it was kept clean it still gave off an uninhabited air. Swallowing thickly, he headed to the small lump on the bed he had spied upon entry. Lucius strong hand suddenly gripped his elbow tightly. Trembling slightly, he turned a little towards the master of the house, who had pinned him with the most focused and calculating of stares. "Listen to me very carefully. I want you to heal him. Then get out. If you ever breathe a word of your doings here, I promise you will be more than sorry. Your family shall pay for any slip of the tongue. Are we clear?" he whispered softly, voice like a velvet noose. Doctor Owen, happy husband and father of four, nodded jerkily, tears coming unbidden to his eyes. Shaking with a newfound dread, he approached the bed once more, flinching when the door slammed shut. Looking down, the child he found lying there appeared barely old enough to be four years of age, and it sickened the doctor to see such an innocent youth surrounded in a sea of his own blood. The boy reminded him of his youngest, with the black hair and pale skin, and he tenderly brushed the bangs from the boy's forehead. 

The lightning-bolt scar stared back at him, a true testament against evil on the face of the tiniest child Doctor Owen had seen. The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, seemed at that moment to be too weak to defeat a fly, never mind You-Know-Who. Owen's breath caught in his throat as he traced the mark almost reverently. The skin beneath his fingers was clammy to the touch, spurring him into action. His wand in hand, his leather bag open for easy access to his healing potions, he began the tiresome work of mending the saviour of the wizarding world. 

As he toiled on the boy, fusing bones and healing weeping wounds, vague and flustered thoughts flittered through his mind. It was ironic that the symbol of light for all of wizarding-kind had been nearly killed by Muggle means, or so the assistant house-elf told him. He found it even more ironic that the symbol of light for all of wizarding-kind was now in the care of the Malfoy family. He nearly chuckled at the thought, but was far too preoccupied trying to save said symbol of light. He did not notice the time fly past, until finally Harry's condition stabilised and the doctor collapsed, exhausted, on a chair in the corner. The house-elf scurried off to inform the master. 

Lucius entered the stuffy room, disdainfully sneering at the many blood-stained towels, the filthy sheets, the bowls of ruddy water. Doctor Owen, perspiration still shining on his forehead, looked over his patient with an odd expression. Lucius scowled. 

"Well?" he pushed. The doctor stood, stretching his aching back that had seized up from being bent over for much of the day. 

"He'll live, though that leg will scar and he may have a slight limp as he grows older. He lost a lot of blood, and broke a few ribs. There was a hairline fracture in his skull, too, but all has been taken care of," he reported. Lucius opened his mouth to speak, but the doctor continued, "I've given him a sleeping potion to take him through another forty-eight hours. Mr Malfoy, I've healed him physically to the best of my ability but how he copes mentally is another matter entirely." He fixed his host with a severe look, acting braver than he felt. Being so tired had taken the edge off his fear of the man in front of him. Lucius sneered, glaring at the boy still lying in the bed. 

"He'll get over it or he'll feel my wrath. Are we still clear?" he asked suddenly. The doctor slightly paled. 

"Y-yes sir. Not a word," he replied. He felt a great surge of pity for the poor boy who would grow up in such awful company, and if it was himself that was under threat and not his family he would have written to Headmaster Dumbledore or the Minister for Magic. As it was, there was nothing he could do. With a heavy sigh, he allowed Lucius to guide him to the lower levels of the house. 

The sight of the setting sun rather surprised him as he traipsed into the first garden. It lit the sky a gorgeous gold that shone upon the deep green of the leaves and lawns. Looking back one last time, at the upper level of the house where he had laboured for eight hours straight, he decided to keep his promise to Lucius for the sake of his family. Doctor Owen Disapparated back home, and tried to forget the events of that day. 

It was not in Harry's nature to wake gradually. Early every morning, his eyes would go from closed to open, and for him the day had begun. There was no transitional moment, where his body would slowly emerge from the cocoon of sleep. He was often up before Aunt Petunia would come rapping on his door, ordering his assistance in the kitchen. So it was rather a shock for Harry when he had to fight out of his dreamy daze. It was a struggle to open his eyes, a side-effect of the sleeping draught that he, of course, didn't know about. 

Very slowly, Harry blinked himself back into the waking world. Only what he saw – blurrily, because he wasn't wearing his glasses – almost convinced him that he was dreaming still. The details being all fuzzy, the only thing Harry could make out in the dark was that the room he rested in was huge. It was easily as big as the Dursleys' living room. The bed that cushioned him felt so wonderfully soft and springy, the covers warm and inviting. 

Harry swallowed a lump of fear. 

Painfully, as each little movement sent tremors along his nerves, he climbed down onto the floor. A fluffy rug caressed his bare toes and tickled the soles of his feet. He ignored it, stepping nervously towards what looked like the door. As he reached for the handle, he paused. What if he was supposed to stay where he was? What if Uncle Vernon had placed him there? And if he hadn't, would he be angry? Harry hated it when his uncle was angry; he would shout and stomp and appear ten times bigger than he already was, and then he would lock Harry away for a day or two to teach him a lesson. But Harry couldn't just sit in the stuffy room by himself. He had to find out what was going on, why he had been brought there, why his ribs and his leg tingled and throbbed. Steadying his nerves with a deep breath, Harry turned the doorknob. 

The corridor he stepped into did not hold the ghastly figure of Uncle Vernon in a fit of rage. In fact, it held nothing but the grey light of dawn shining dimly in from the large window. Padding on his toes like a cat, yet having to limp for the ache in his leg, he peered out of the window. Gardens spread over the land below, each perfectly cultured and picturesque. Harry, who himself was forced to do a fair bit of gardening for Aunt Petunia, much preferred a wilderness to cultivated borders of flowers, but he had to admit the grounds looked splendid. When squinting did not improve the distorted view for him, he sighed softly and turned around. The walls were bare, and to him the entire corridor seemed deserted. 

At the end a set of stairs greeted him, and he descended cautiously. He had learnt the hard way that to rush half-blind down a flight of steps was not conductive to good health. Plus, whoever owned the house would probably not be pleased to find a six-year-old boy running about his long corridors. 

The next level down was lit by candles at regular intervals along the walls, and hung up were various paintings of people in repose. Had Harry had clear sight, he would have seen that the persons in the pictures were snoozing lightly, their chests rising and falling with small puffs of breath. All he could hear, however, were many light snores. He guessed that the bedrooms on this landing were all full, and consequently tried to be extra quiet. Like nothing more than a breath of wind he felt his way along the wall. Every now and then a door would appear, or a gap leading off on another tangent. He prayed he wouldn't get lost, in case nobody ever found him, and was horrified to see that, at the end of the corridor, was another large window. The light streaming in was a little brighter than before, but it did nothing to cheer him up. His heart sank with the thought that he was lost. Feeling unimaginably tired and achy, he decided a few minutes rest would not be a crime and settled himself on the window seat, leaning his forehead against the chilled windowpane. Perhaps, he thought wearily, someone would find him. 

Unlike Harry, Lucius had not slept that night. It was not out of any feeble worry for the boy's health, most definitely not. But his activities had concerned the weak child hidden in the recesses of his mansion. Lucius was a well-known and influential man whose acquaintances stretched far and deep in the wizarding world. He had been pulling on the many strings connected to him well into early morning, and finally things were coming together. 

Lucius was rather proud of himself. He had commenced with his business in such a fashion that it was highly unlikely anyone would even notice until the paperwork had been processed at the Ministry, and even then the news probably wouldn't reach common hearing for some years yet. A smile spread over his pale face as he thought of this. They wouldn't know what hit them! All he had to do was wait for the most opportune moment. 

Having ascended the stairs, he stopped quite suddenly in his walk along the corridor when he spotted the ill-clad figure perched precariously on the window-seat found at the end of every main landing in the house. The black-haired head leant forward ever so slightly, resting on the cool glass. He was oddly surprised that, as he approached, he could hear the boy humming softly to himself. Lucius could not discern any recognisable tune from the jumbled notes, but it covered any sound he made as he stalked over to him, and grabbed his arm roughly. 

Harry let out a muffled whimper of surprise, then stilled any motion on his part. His face screwed up into a grimace of pain at having to support his weight on his injured leg. Very cautiously he peered up at the face above him, squinting vainly in an attempt to focus the blurred picture. After a pause Lucius let him go, and Potter scrambled to his feet. 

"What are you doing up, boy?" he asked at length. When stood opposite him, Lucius could clearly see how small the brat was. Draco was a good four inches taller and not nearly as fragile. 

"I…I woke up in a strange room, and I wanted to find out where I was," he replied with childish innocence. Lucius' eyes narrowed into a shrewd stare. Curiosity was a trait he admired at times, but there were situations and circumstances when it was highly inappropriate, this being one of them. He would have to teach the brat that small fact of life. 

"Are we feeling better now?" he asked, voice morphing liquidly into something approaching parental concern. Harry recognised the harder undertones and felt his throat constrict. Jerkily he nodded. 

"W-what happened?" he whispered, gently rubbing his right leg. Lucius manoeuvred him to sit on the bench, and joined him there. 

"Your family were killed in a car crash," he reported coldly. Lucius expected a reaction of some sort. Tears perhaps, or angry denial. Harry sat quite still for a heartbeat before looking up at him with clear green eyes. They were as emotionless as Lucius' voice had been. 

"Where will I stay now?" he murmured. Lucius smirked. 

"Enough talk. First we should eat. It is time for breakfast. Follow me." 

Last Next  



	3. Initiation

_Chapter 3: Initiation_

Harry wobbled on his feet briefly but had no choice but to quickly recover as Lucius was already half way down the hall and had no intention of slowing or stopping. Harry's traversal of the many flights of stairs was nothing short of heroic due to the throbbing pain it brought him. So concentrated was he in reaching his goal, he paid little attention to where he was going or the areas he was walking through. The whisperings of the portraits flew over his head, and any movement he spied out of the corner of his eye he dismissed as his imagination. Lucius waited impatiently at the bottom of the last flight of stairs, tapping one foot as he glared up at Harry. The boy only had time enough to see which door his host had disappeared through before he was forced to hobble after him as quickly as possible. 

It led him down a short corridor, floored with dark wood and decorated imposingly. This hallway opened out into a room bigger than Harry had ever seen. He had to stop just to look about him in awe. The dark wood theme continued through as far as Harry could see. His eyes wandered from the high windows to a table that spanned the length of the room. Vaguely Harry picked out a person seated at the table and he stumbled towards them, hoping it was the gentleman who had found him and not another stranger. As he approached the table, Harry confirmed that one of the people was the person he had followed. However, there were two others seated there that, if he squinted, he could see were sneering at him in an identically shocked manner. The man who led him merely smirked. 

"Boy, my name is Lucius, though you are not to use that. This is my wife Narcissa, though you aren't to use that name either, and that is my son Draco. You will call me 'sir' and my wife 'ma'am'. Are we clear?" Harry nodded jerkily, and seated himself when Lucius gestured. He sat stiffly, terrified of disturbing the pristine white tablecloth or the neatly laid cutlery. He could feel the eyes of Narcissa and Draco inspecting him critically, and tried to shrink in on himself. It didn't work. There was quiet for a few minutes while breakfast was devoured. Harry picked at his blood-soaked clothes distractedly. Though in some respects he was far more mature than most six-year-olds, Harry's life had been ultimately sheltered, and even if it hadn't been he was still too young to truly comprehend the life-changing events that were happening around him. 

Lucius stood and placed a pair of glasses in front of Harry – which he quickly slid onto his face – before he and Narcissa left the table. Harry could hear them talking rather heatedly from the corridor he had walked through, and he had a definite suspicion it was about him that they were arguing. Draco's eyes bored into his skull, and Harry hated it. He wanted to scream out his frustration and confusion at the predicament he had woken to, but settled for biting his tongue. He was too unsure of himself to risk angering the blonde boy, even if he did turn out to be as dumb as Dudley. 

The two adults eventually re-entered the room, but did not retake their seats. Rather, they stood one to either side of Harry and scrutinised him. He could feel colour flood his cheeks. Attention on his person was rare, but being studied like a specimen in a lab was almost too much for him. He sat stiffly but slouched, as nervous children are wont to do, and stared fixedly at the tabletop. 

"He's extremely small," Narcissa noted. "Those clothes will be burnt immediately. I shan't have such items in the house. Something must be done with that hair. Look at me boy!" The sharp order made him jump to obey. She peered down her nose at him. "We shall have to have his vision corrected; those glasses are not befitting of…" She trailed off and shared a cold smile with her husband. "He's a little on the emaciated side, which shall have to be rectified. And that posture! I have never seen anything more disgraceful!" She paused, nostrils flaring slightly. Harry bent his head lower and worried at his lip. "On the whole, however, I believe he has potential. We can mould him into a more acceptable form." Lucius nodded, seemingly pleased. Draco looked on in boredom. 

"Up, boy," Lucius ordered. Harry slithered out of his chair. Lucius was walking away already. He glanced at Narcissa nervously. She scowled at him. 

"Well follow then!" she snapped, and sat back in her seat. Harry scurried after the blonde man, hoisting his trousers as they began to slip past his hips. Lucius sneered at the boy, and snapped his fingers. Harry stumbled back in shock as a short, knobbly creature appeared out of thin air. The little thing kneeled before Lucius. 

"H-how can D-Dobby serve you, M-Master?" it asked pitifully. Harry's heart twinged. Lucius' face remained cold and impassive. 

"Bring me a child's robe, black," he instructed. Dobby vanished in the same fashion he had arrived. Harry blinked in shock. He couldn't quite believe what had just happened. The little creature returned in a remarkably short amount of time, but it evidently wasn't fast enough as Lucius' foot shot out, sending the squealing creature skidding across the floor. Harry winced in sympathy, looking up at Lucius with new understanding. The black bundle was tossed to Harry. "Put it on," he was ordered. As Harry unrolled it he realised with no small amount of shock that the garment was more like a girl's dress than anything. He glanced at Lucius uncertainly, but received only a glare. He hurriedly pulled on the black robe, displacing his glasses in his haste to appease. Lucius stood behind him, placing a firm, restraining hand on his shoulder. Harry gulped. "Do not panic." 

In the blink of an eye they were gone. 

When Harry returned that evening he was barely recognisable. They had spent the entire day in Paris, the city where all upper-class wizards shopped. Harry had been dragged from one establishment to another, having new clothes measured and bought for him, having new shoes tailor-made, having his vision corrected, his hair lengthened; by the end of the day Harry's injured leg was throbbing and he was, in a word, bewildered. He had managed to pick up a few French phrases, like 'Bonjour' and 'Au revoir', but the one time he attempted to put his knew found knowledge to use Lucius gave him such a gorgon stare he was nearly turned to stone. 

Harry had caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window and had to do a double take. He didn't recognise himself at first, but he decided after much deliberation that he sort of liked the new him. It was a refreshing change not having heavy glasses weighting on his nose. Seeing his incredulous look, Lucius had chuckled coldly and said, "I shan't have a tramp in my house, boy. You will learn to look and act as one of us, and you shall learn quickly." The 'or else' went unspoken, though Harry thought he understood the cryptic meaning. 

Lucius ordered him to his room before abandoning him in the foyer. Harry took to the stairs, trying to remember where he had come from that morning and failing miserably. He came across a door that was slightly ajar and, after inspecting the corridor for signs of the Malfoy family he squeezed through. 

It was a comfortable library, with stacks of books cramming the shelves built into the walls. The whole room felt light and airy, with a higher than average ceiling, but cosy at the same time. A fire roared pleasantly in the hearth, the flames flickering in the polished surface of the coffee table between two dark green armchairs. Feeling weary, and knowing he wasn't going to find his room without help, Harry climbed into one burgundy seat and proceeded to doze in front of the glowing flames. 

As such, he did not hear the door creak open, nor the surprised gasp of a young child. He started when someone cleared their throat purposely, and leapt into an upright position. He relaxed slightly when he saw it was Draco; Harry could handle people his age. 

"What are you doing here?" Draco demanded, one eyebrow raised much as Lucius' had many times over the course of the day. 

"Why does it matter?" Harry retorted, using the same haughty tone. Draco scowled and threw himself into a chair opposite. They sat in silence, glaring at each other. 

"Don't think Father will treat you better than me. You're just a stupid Potter. Everyone knows the Potters are worthless," Draco said suddenly, a malicious gleam entering his eye. 

"Says who?" Harry said hotly. 

"Says Father, and Father is always right." Harry, finding no retort, sat and seethed until Lucius entered. He glared at Harry down the length of his long nose. 

"I thought I instructed you to return to your room, boy. Go." Harry did not move. "Why do you disobey?" 

"I…I don't know the way," he explained nervously. Lucius scowled. 

"Dobby!" The house-elf appeared with a crack. "Show the boy to his room," Lucius ordered, already moving away to attend his business with Draco. 

"Y-yes master. Dobby shall r-right away." Harry followed the small creature in silence, mulling over Draco's words and growing to hate the blonde boy more and more. Dobby led him up two flights of stairs without a sound until, upon reaching Harry's bedroom, he shut the door and promptly burst into rapid speech, 

"Harry Potter is here now! Dobby is so glad you has come! Dobby does anything Harry Potter asks, but Dobby is having to go now." He disappeared before Harry had a chance to voice any of the many questions that were bubbling in his head. 

He remembered the car crash, of course, and the echo of pain in his leg and chest made him shudder, but after that was a blank patch. How long he had been asleep wasn't really important, he recognised; what mattered was that he had been awake for less than a day, and he was tired and sore and confused and frustratingly lonely. Almost he wished Dudley were there to tease him, because at least that would be familiar, but Dudley was dead now. Harry wondered if the blankness he felt about that was a bad thing; he had never loved the Dursleys, and they had never loved him, but they had been family, and he supposed he should probably be crying like they did on television. 

Thinking was exhausting work, Harry decided, and though he knew he would be hungry soon, he was far too tired to care. Kicking his shoes off, Harry clambered onto the huge bed – his bed, he presumed – and slid under the soft covers, settling himself in. It wasn't long at all before he fell into deep slumber. 

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	4. Instruction

_Chapter 4: Instruction_

"Sit up straight!" Narcissa barked, swooping down on Harry as he squirmed in his chair. "No child in this house will slouch in such an undignified manner." Huffing, Harry forced his straining back muscles to support him in a vertical position, something he was not at all used to. He was hot and tired, his leg was throbbing, and he was angry. Across from him, Draco was perfectly poised, hands folded on the table and smirking smugly at Harry's pitiful efforts. "For Merlin's sake, child, will you do as you're told?" Narcissa snapped, whipping out her wand. A muttered word and suddenly Harry was ramrod straight, and unable to move an inch. His eyes sparked brightly with fury and embarrassment. 

Not more than two months had he been there, but already he was wishing Lucius hadn't rescued him from the car. Almost he wanted to be back with the Dursleys, though he realised that they probably seemed more appealing now because he was beginning to forget them. He could no longer remember clearly the sound of Uncle Vernon shouting, or Aunt Petunia's pale face, or Dudley's high-pitched snorts of laughter. It was a good thing that he had been rescued, he knew, but it didn't make him like these lessons any better. 

"Harry, you will sit in that position for the rest of this morning's instruction, understood?" Narcissa said. As his movement was completely restricted, Harry couldn't even nod his head. "Good. Now as I was saying, Pureblood families like the Malfoys are far superior to mixed blood families because …" 

Every muscle in Harry's back and thighs was trembling with exhaustion by the time Narcissa dismissed them. For two hours she had instructed them in purity studies, explaining in detail why Malfoys could never mingle with Muggles or Muggleborns. It was all frightfully dull, and even Draco had looked glassy-eyed by the end. They had a short break before their next lesson, with a hired tutor called Mr Stanton, a severe man with high standards and a short temper. Harry used the time to sneak down to the kitchens for a quick snack, unaware that Draco was secretly following him. 

"Mr Harry Potter sir!" Dobby crowed delightedly when Harry entered, and immediately the house-elves crowded around the small boy. He smiled at them pleasantly. 

"Hello everyone," he said. This excited them more, naturally, until Harry was trying desperately to shush them, lest someone heard. "I've not got long, Dobby. I'd just like a small sandwich. Just a small one." Dobby leapt around joyfully. 

"Oh yes, Harry Potter sir! Dobby is getting it at once!" Within minutes, Harry was being plied with several small sandwiches, with different fillings, and a large salad on the side. He took the plate gratefully, and waved cheery goodbyes to all the house-elves, who seemed simultaneously bewildered, unnerved and pleased by his friendliness. 

The door closed, and Harry turned to head back up the stairs, only to find Draco leaning against the wall, watching. From the very smug look on his face, Harry had no doubt that Draco had heard every last word he had exchanged with the house-elves, and was now going to rat him out to Lucius. There would be no point in trying to stop him, because Harry had nothing to bargain with. 

Suddenly, his snack was not so appealing. In fact, his stomach was beginning to hurt. He knew Lucius didn't like the house-elves because they were inferiors, and he encouraged Draco and Harry to act like him in yelling at and hitting the little servants. But every time Harry thought of doing it, he remember the Dursleys, and how they had treated him because they thought they were his superiors. It made him feel sick, and so he had actually gone out of his way to be friends with Dobby. And now he had been found out. 

"I'm telling Father," Draco taunted. 

"I know," said Harry. Picking out an egg sandwich, he nibbled on it as he followed Draco up the stairs to class. Stanton was not pleased the both of them were late, which cheered Harry slightly that Draco got into trouble too, but as the lesson droned – about the theory behind levitation and manipulation of floating objects, including diagrams – Harry grew more and more nervous. Lucius was always irritable when he returned from work at the Ministry, full of "blustering simpletons and scheming Mudbloods". To have Draco reveal Harry's little secret would not please him at all. 

"Harry! Will you pay attention, boy!" Stanton snarled, and slammed his cane on the table inches from Harry's hand. He leaned over the table, until their eyes were level. "I'm warning you boy," he growled, "you'll get no special treatment here. You do as you're told, or so help me, I will beat you till you bleed!" 

Shakily Harry nodded. He didn't doubt at all that Stanton really would beat him. For the rest of the lesson, he paid close attention. He even volunteered a few answers, which Stanton was loath to accept. Every lesson, Stanton went out of his way to remind Harry that he would "get no special treatment", though Harry could never figure out why. If anything, Draco was the one who get special treatment, which irked Harry at times. One day, he always vowed, he would beat Draco at his own game. 

All too soon, the dreaded time came for Lucius to arrive home. As always, Narcissa gathered the boys and had them stand in front of the fireplace. At exactly six o'clock, Lucius stepped over the grate, not a smudge of soot on him (Harry always suspected magic, but he could never be sure). 

"Good evening, Lucius," Narcissa greeted, "How was your day at work?" To all their surprise, Lucius smirked. His normal answer was a long diatribe about Weasleys, Diggorys and Aurors, but not today, apparently. 

"My dear, the papers have all been officially witnessed and signed," he said. Narcissa gave a brittle smile and approached her husband. 

"No questions?" she asked. Lucius snorted. 

"Of course there were questions. But none were uttered, if you catch my meaning," he said. The two smirked wickedly at each other. 

"Father?" Draco piped up, and Harry felt his stomach drop. All hope fled him. 

"Yes?" said Lucius. There was a slight hint of annoyance in his tone that made Harry feel even worse. 

"Harry did something earlier that I thought you should know," Draco said boldly. For his part, Harry wished that glares could kill, so hard was he glowering at Draco's back. 

"Oh? And what was that?" Lucius said, eyeing Harry distrustfully. 

"I heard him talking to the house-elves in the kitchen. He was being friendly to them, Father. They are our inferiors, and he was treating them like human beings," Draco sneered. Harry stared rigidly at the floor, but his cheeks were red with shame. It wasn't so much that he had been found out, though that was part of it; he felt embarrassed because he had disappointed Lucius, his saviour. 

"Is Draco right, Harry?" came the soft reproach. Harry nodded miserably. Lucius placed a hand on his shoulder. "Harry, Draco, follow me," he ordered, and swept out of the room. A sharp glance from Narcissa sent them both scurrying after him. 

Lucius led them to his office, a ground-floor room furnished entirely out of mahogany, and indicated to the chairs by the fireplace. When the boys had settled themselves, Lucius pulled from one of his robe's secret pockets a sealed envelope. He broke the wax with an ornate knife from his large desk, and opened the folded parchment within. 

"Father, what is that?" Draco dared to ask, when Lucius did nothing but stare at the document in his hand. He glanced up, and smiled coldly at his son. 

"This, Draco, is a legally binding contract. It states that I, Lucius Octavius Malfoy, and Narcissa Astra Malfoy, are legally made the guardians of one Harry James Potter, formally adopting said child into the Malfoy family; and additionally, altering the full name of said child to include the new family name, thus becoming Harry James Malfoy-Potter, effective immediately, and witnessed by the undersigned." Lucius looked up with a sly smirk on his face. 

Harry stared, trying to comprehend the words and failing abysmally. Draco didn't appear to have done much better, and with a frown, he asked, "What does all that mean?" 

"It means that Harry is now legally a Malfoy. He is my foster son, and heir to whatever I choose to leave him in my will. Furthermore, it means that he is your foster brother, Draco." The pale boy seemed stunned to hear this, and sat in shock for a long moment. Harry himself was not much better. "What this also means, boys, is that I expect you to start behaving like Malfoy brothers. I want to hear no more tales about one another. If you have disagreements, you must sort them out yourselves. It is unbefitting your station, Draco." The boy in question flushed and looked down. "Now go to the table. I have a few words I must speak with your brother." The term seemed to jar with Draco, judging by the perplexed look on his face, but he did as he was told. 

Harry glanced up at his new foster father, feeling indebted and oddly trapped. Tucking the document away, Lucius took Draco's seat, and folded his hands on his knees, as Narcissa had taught in the morning's instruction. Lucius looked at Harry expectantly, so Harry sought for something to say. "Thank you," was what he eventually came up with, though it sounded weak even to his young ears. Lucius smirked. 

"It was entirely my pleasure," he said, a sly twist to his words that Harry didn't comprehend. Lucius leaned forward. "I don't know what Draco was talking about regarding you and certain house-elves, and to be perfectly honest I would really rather not know. I simply do not care. However, I expect members of my family to behave in a manner appropriate to their upbringing and position in society." Harry nodded guiltily, feeling even worse for the knowledge that he would have to start being cruel to Dobby. 

"Yes sir," he murmured. Lucius snapped his fingers, causing Harry to look up sharply. 

"However," he said clearly, "if one should feel the need to behave in an inappropriate manner, it would be wise for one to be discreet about it." Harry blinked in confusion, causing Lucius to smirk. "Even Draco is not as obedient as he pretends to be, though he thinks I do not know it. You would do well to copy Draco's words and actions where you can. You are not a born Malfoy, Harry, and thus you are never going to be as good as Draco. But I expect you to strive towards that goal of perfection. It will please me if you do." Swallowing thickly, Harry nodded, and at a gesture from Lucius, he slipped out of the door and padded over to the dining room. 

Waiting for Lucius to join them at table, Harry felt burdened with expectation. He knew without a doubt that he would try to please Lucius; after all, it was the least he could do for the man who had saved him. But a small part of him was resentful, and it was that part of him which mourned for his life with the Dursleys, where they expected him to amount to absolutely nothing. 

He was turning seven next month, but faced with such pressure, he suddenly felt much older. 

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	5. Fire

_Chapter 5: Fire_

Draco was remarkably obvious when he was up to no good. Harry had watched him countless times, and knew exactly what to look for. The night before, he would be more excitable than normal. Then in the morning, he would sneak out through the servants' passages and the backdoor, climb over the west wall of the courtyard, and crawl under the border hedge of the adjacent garden. It was all entirely visible from Harry's room, which faced west, and Draco had just slipped under the hedge. 

Throwing on his cloak, Harry ran down the service stairs and out into the fresh air. It was easy to follow Draco's footprints in the mud, softened by yesterday's summer storm, and Harry wasted no time. 

The trail led him to a barn in one of the outlying fields. Quickly, Harry shimmied up a tree at the edge of a nearby copse, using the thick greenery to hide himself from view. Draco had his wand out, something they weren't supposed to do outside lessons, and was shooting firebombs at hand-sized balls of hay. Harry watched in bemusement, why would Draco come outside just after dawn to practice spells? The answer came when finally the hay caught fire. Draco cheered and ran to the growing flame. The nearby hay quickly caught, and still Draco laughed. Ever since they had been small, the pale boy had had a fascination with fire; he had delighted in burning parchment in the library fireplace. It seemed the delight had not faded. 

Harry grew alarmed when Draco left the fire to get more hay from the barn. Jumping out of the tree, he began to jog over, stopping only when a huge bale of hay, pushed by Draco, appeared in the doorway. The original fire was too close to the entrance now, licking at the bale just beginning to appear in the sunlight. Harry drew breath to shout, but before he could, the bale ignited. Draco yelped, and a split second later there was a deafening BOOM. 

Harry was thrown to the ground, ears ringing and temporarily senseless. He sat up dazedly and simply stared as the fire ate up the wooden barn. Black smoke billowed into the air, and the heat was overwhelming. Then it came back to him: Draco was in there! Without stopping to consider his actions, Harry clambered to his feet and raced over. The heat was scorching, unbearable, but the roof was starting to catch and Harry knew he had little time. Shedding his cloak to use as a cover, Harry took one last breath of cleaner air and ducked into the roaring flames. 

Inside was a scene that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. Fire and ash in every direction, dancing around his terror-struck form. The smoke curled in his lungs and stung his streaming eyes. His skin felt like old parchment. "Draco!" he croaked, coughing. "Draco, where are you?" Squinting as he spun around, he spied the pale boy's body lying perilously close to one torched wall. Harry stumbled to his side and fell to his knees, one hand holding his cloak close while the other sought for any sign of life. Shallow breaths were gasping from Draco's open mouth, but not sooner had relief hit Harry when the roof cracked and began to cave. There was very little time. 

Quickly, he spread his cloak on the dusty floor, unable to stop his wracking coughs now. He had to get Draco out, but though he wasn't particularly heavy, he was a dead weight, and Harry wasn't very strong. More of the roof tumbled down, showering sparks and ask onto them. His skin felt too tight, and Harry could barely see at all. Hurriedly, he rolled Draco onto the cloak; then, grabbing the collar in his hands, he dragged the body to the entrance as quickly as he could. More than once he tripped, and the falling embers pricked his skin painfully, but with a final effort he burst out of the doorway. 

Almost immediately he could feel the clean fresh air clearing his lungs. After a few more yards up the hill he could pull no more, and Harry collapse at Draco's side. Deep coughs wrenched themselves from him until his throat was raw and his lungs screaming for deeper breaths of air. Draco was suspiciously silent. Alarmed and slightly annoyed, Harry slapped Draco twice around the face and rolled him onto his side. It seemed to work, as Draco heaved in a huge breath and began to cough violently. Relieved, Harry lay back down, feeling the soft breeze dry the hot tears on his face. 

After Draco fell quiet again, there was a moment's peace, the two of them listening to the flames destroy the barn. Slowly Draco sat up, still labouring with his breathing, his eyes puffy and red. "Harry," he wheezed uncertainly, but nothing followed. His rescuer eyes him coolly, and then came voices from across the field. A look of sheer panic crossed Draco's face and he turned to Harry desperately. "Please! You can't let them find me here! Father will be furious if he knows I did this! Please Harry!" he pleaded. 

The sound was so foreign to Harry – Draco Malfoy saying 'please'? – that he almost didn't believe his dulled hearing. Almost. Considering it a moment longer, he smiled tightly and nodded, pulling Draco to his feet. Cloak slung over one arm, he half-dragged the pale boy towards the copse he had hidden in before. 

They watched from the shelter of the trees as farm labourers circled the nearly destroyed building, wands raised. Water showered over the wreckage at a single command – apart from one man who, curiously, conjured a stream of flowers – and put out the rest of the fire. It hissed and spat like a wounded snake, until finally it sputtered out. Beside him, Draco gave a huge sigh of relief, and would have walked off had Harry not grabbed his arm. 

There was a calculating gleam in Harry's bloodshot eyes as he regarded his foster brother; it unnerved Draco to see such Malfoyish behaviour in the dark-haired boy. "What?" he snapped when Harry made no move to say anything. "Sphinx got your tongue? I always knew you –" A sooty hand clapped over his mouth, silencing him. Harry smiled wickedly at Draco's outraged glare. 

"Shut up!" he said, "Don't say another word, got it?" Draco tore the hand away from his mouth. 

"How dare you? No one tells me what to do!" he retorted. Smirking, Harry very deliberately looked at the smoking ruin. 

"I know what you've been doing, Draco. Not just the fire, but the magic too. We're not allowed to do magic outside of lessons," he said softly. At his words, Draco did not appear nearly so arrogant now; there was a flicker of ill-concealed fear in his eyes. 

"So?" he said nonchalantly. Harry turned back to him, his smirk now predatory. 

"So, if you don't do exactly what I'm about to tell you, I'm going to tell your mother. And your father. I will tell them everything that happened today, and they will come down on you like a Squashing Charm." Draco audibly gulped. 

"What do you want?" he asked at last, and then added icily, "And it better be something I can do, or I will use a Squashing Charm on you!" Harry smirked. 

"I think you'll manage. I want you to leave me alone. I mean completely alone. Don't call me names, don't trip me up in the corridors, don't send me nasty messages, don't try to stop me from playing Quidditch, don't tell your friends to be mean to me, and don't ever mention me to your father," Harry stated, calmly and evenly, but with such steel that Draco immediately got the implied threat. "Swear it to me, right now, or I go straight to the Owlery to mail your father." In the face of Harry's vow, Draco found himself nodding in agreement. Harry smirked at him, coveting his victory, and walked off through the copse. 

Harry saw neither hide nor hair of Draco all through the day, though he knew he must have come home for a bath and breakfast. This was to Harry's supreme pleasure; with Draco not out of the way, he was free from one more restraint. In celebration, after his own determined attempt to rid himself of all the soot, and a bite to eat, he took his Cleansweep 4 and spent the rest of the morning flying, for once sure that there would ne no attempt to knock him off, or banish him from the area. The afternoon saw him in the library, reading about new Quidditch moves he could learn tomorrow. 

Draco, for his part, spent the entire day in his room listening to the WWN. He was absolutely appalled that Harry had managed to blackmail him – a word and technique he himself had used many times – but he couldn't think of a single way to get out of it. Resigned to his promise, because after all, he owed Harry his life now, Draco spent the rest of his time sulking. 

At evening meal, all was suspiciously quiet. Lucius was neither deaf nor blind. It was clear to him that his son refused to look at Harry, while Harry glanced fleetingly at Draco. Blatantly something had happened between them, an altercation of some kind which Harry had won. While the thought of Draco losing did nothing to please Lucius, Harry winning filled him with pride. The assimilation of the wretch he had rescued was working far better than he had hoped. 

"One of the outlying barns burnt down this morning," Narcissa stated by way of conversation. Draco froze, and Harry's movements became suspiciously careful. They were both involved in the fire then, Lucius mused. 

"Terrible, my dear," he said casually. Narcissa caught the tone, followed his gaze to their son and foster-son, and raised her shapely eyebrows. 

"The expense to rebuild shall be greater if we use slate and stone," he said. Lucius nodded. 

"Stone buildings cannot be burnt down, however. Have we any idea what started the blaze?" he asked. Draco was pushing his peas around the plate; Harry's cup was apparently fascinating. 

"One of the labourers thought they saw children nearby," Narcissa said, a lie that only Lucius detected. The two fell silent, waiting for one of the boys to speak, but neither gave any indication that they would. Lucius was mildly surprised, but not unduly alarmed. If the tiff between them was that influential, it could serve his purpose at a later time. Smirking, Lucius nodded to his wife and continued to eat. 

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End file.
